


The Desolation of Smaug: The BtS that Never Made it to DVD

by Hobbitrocious



Category: The Hobbit RPF
Genre: ABDL, Age Play, Behind the Scenes, Crack Treated Seriously, Daddy/little - Freeform, Dd/lb, Fluff and Crack, Freebatch - Freeform, Humor, Jingles the Defiler, M/M, RPF, RPS - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 19:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9199526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbitrocious/pseuds/Hobbitrocious
Summary: Completely fictional backstory explaining one of the more absurd behind-the-scenes quotes from the set of The Hobbit, about deriving motivation for fleeing from Smaug in terror by imagining Smaug is a giant, cranky baby demanding a nappy change.





	1. The ADR

**Author's Note:**

> Written after finally watching The Desolation of Smaug Extended Edition behind-the-scenes footage. This is largely Mr. McTavish's fault.
> 
> Meant to be "bonus scenes" for a really smutty RPS, but I never finished the main fic itself before my writing PC died. I may still get around to it someday. These bonus scenes have not been edited since over a year ago; sorry if they suck. (It was enough work reformatting them just so I could open the file on this computer!)
> 
> If my lack of knowledge of BtS material for TBotFA is noticeable, I apologise and hope to rectify that lack soon. The PC that died also functioned as my DVD player, so as of January 2017 I still haven't gotten to see Extended TBotFA or its BtS. :(

"Right, yeah," Peter and Phillippa huddled over the script one more time, the rest of the room stopping and waiting for them. The behind-the-scenes cameraman continued to shoot over their shoulders from behind the sofa. Martin, who had crashed the ADR session, leaned back against Ben's table.  
  
Benedict, to rest his knees before they got into the thick of it, stretched carefully on his side and propped his head up on an elbow.  
  
Martin interrupted the murmuring giddily, "Wait, wait..."  
  
Pete and Phillippa barely looked up until Martin detached the sheepskin from one of the table legs with a great, dragging rip of Velcro.  
  
He flipped the corner of the blanket over Benedict, tucking it around his body up to the shoulders. Ben stayed put and let him, smiling bemusedly. A little bored and open to going with it, Benedict snuggled into the wool, folding his hands beneath his head and lying down completely as if for a nap.  
  
Martin grinned to his audience around the couch.  
  
"Look at that. Doesn't he look like a fucking Anne Geddes photo?"  
  
Trying not to snort with laughter or smirk too hard and ruin the effect, Benedict wriggled his bum to make space inside the blanket to draw his legs up in a foetal position, closed his eyes, and slipped his thumb between his lips. He heard Peter groan and what might have been a choked laugh from Phillippa.  
  
"Maybe," Peter ran with the joke, his overactive imagination helpless to keep from putting in its two bits, "maybe if they went and, you know, found all the babies they'd taken photos of way back then and, after thirty-odd years, brought them back for another photo shoot."  
  
"Oh my god, you boys," Phillippa shook her head and tried to bury herself in a random page of script rewrites.  
  
"Hey," Martin said in a look-on-the-bright-side tone, "at least we're not making furrie jokes."  
  
"Wouldn't I need a costume?" Benedict asked, still wrapped up in his cocoon.  
  
"I'm a little confused on that one," Peter admitted after a nervous giggle.  
  
Phillippa caught his eye. "You don't want to know, Pete, trust me," she said sullenly.  
  
"Well, basically, it's-" Martin started to explain helpfully.  
  
Phillippa cut him off with a curt, warning, "No! Don't." Script pages rustled in her lap, getting shuffled around without real purpose.  
  
"Would that make me a 'babyfur'?" Benedict mused, putting far too much thought into the matter.  
  
Martin frowned into the distance for a second before the meaning of the term clicked for him. When it did, he gave a sputtering chuckle.  
  
"Ha. Hm, only if we did a rewind to, like, two hundred years back, right? Smaug's pretty old by the time Bilbo and Thorin come and start chasing him around."  
  
"We're still on page fifty-seven, right?" Peter attempted to get back to work.  
  
"Um..." Phillippa picked through the mess of notes in her lap, her nervous rearranging having disordered everything she'd so painstakingly put together that morning.  
  
"Yes," Ben answered Peter for her.  
  
Peter glanced over at the table, not paying attention to Martin's hand on Benedict's hip, and uncurled most of his fingers from around his pen to wave at the table in a vague gesture, saying, "Hey, guys? Can we put the blanket back where it was? We'll start in a minute, as soon as, um," he watched Phillippa sort frantically through her sheaf, "... As soon as we've got our stuff together over here."  
  
Martin and Ben grinned at each other as Martin slowly tugged the sheepskin back in place and refastened it, Ben rolling lazily onto his back.  
  
Martin turned back to his writers.  
  
"Can we strip him down now?" he asked cheekily. Once he had at least one person's attention, he pointed to Benedict's crotch using his middle finger to emphasise.  
  
Peter, head down in a folder, only laughed a quick hoot and continued skimming pages.  
  
Phillippa's jaw fell open. "I saw that. The _camera_ saw that!" She jerked her pen over her shoulder at the camera guy.  
  
Martin coughed and said quietly, "It was just a question..."  
  
He busied himself with inspecting the walls to hopefully let Phillippa's displeasure simmer off. The sound of papers dominated the room again.  
  
Peter piped up a moment or two later, still reading, "Be glad Viggo isn't here, or there'd be a lot more going on than we'd want to see."  
  
"Ohhhh, my gosh," Phillippa moaned. "Let's just get to the script." She tapped her stack on the coffee table to level it, finally with everything in as close to the order she needed it.  
  
"Right;" she said, "I think I've got it. Fifty-seven, you said?"  
  
"Mm... Yep."  
  
"Okay."  
  
Benedict sighed and rolled up into a crouch, peering at the music stand holding his copy of his lines.  
  
"Mkay... Um, Martin? You can leave now," Peter said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.  
  
"Can he stay?" Benedict chirped.  
  
Phillippa shot him a disparaging look.  
  
"It would make the performance more authentic," Martin said mildly, without missing a beat.  
  
Phillippa looked desperately to Pete.  
  
Peter, despite his head being somewhat in another room, worrying about another department working down the hall that he'd have to visit that afternoon, felt a prickle on the back of his neck and immediately recognised the source as being Phillippa's radiating _I will hurt you or get one of the stunties to do so if you say yes_ vibes.  
  
Affirming it with a quick, cautious sideways glance at her, Peter made it clear he was giving a directorial proclamation when he said, "I think that would be a bit too crowded. I'm sorry, Martin. I'm going to have to send the camera guy out too in a few minutes."  
  
With minimal grumbling, albeit some, the boys parted, Martin dragging Bilbo's feet and stealing a long, exaggeratedly wistful last look, and Benedict pouting wide-eyed and reaching with grabby hands after Martin.  
  
"We'll call you in when we put the fuzzy handcuffs on," a voice crackled unhelpfully from the microphone inside the tech booth.  
  
Martin offered a nodding smile at that and waved in the direction of the booth before stepping out.  
  
"Alright," Peter spread the current dialogue out in front of him and cracked, "while Martin goes and takes a cold shower, let's have you start from your second line to Thorin there..."  
  
  
Out in the hall, Graham surprised Martin from behind with a smarmy, "You know, the soundproofing in here is shit." He stood reclined against the wall, one arm crossed over his chest and supporting the other, with which he held a half-chewed toothpick. He had shed the upper half of his costume down to his muscle suit but left the ratty shoulder furs on. They stuck out like bad toupees on a shaven warg.  
  
Martin hissed, catching his breath. He jerked his head at the door he'd just closed. "Well, then, be quiet. They're rehearsing in there."  
  
"I think the next time we do our run across the bridge, I'll be picturing a large, cranky baby glaring down at us from overhead. _Tsk_. Ooh, he'd look frightening."  
  
Martin rolled his eyes. Graham pushed off the wall and sauntered away toward the catering pavilion, carrying his toothpick daintily. Martin trudged behind, unfortunately needing to head in the same direction.  
  
"Do you suppose he'd wear a disposable nappy, or cloth?" Graham called back to him. When Martin didn't answer, Graham continued, "I think Sherlock would go for disposables. Just because he's prissy like that, you know. Wouldn't want to get his hands dirty."  
  
Martin struggled not to laugh aloud at the mental image of Benedict on the BBC set wearing one, sans trousers, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Oh, he'd created a monster.  
  
"I'll bet he'd have John change them for him," Graham threw in.  
  
"New topic." Martin suggested, "Something that's more lunch appropriate, please."  
  
"Would he take breast milk or formula?" Graham wondered.  
  
Struggling to not think about the question of whose breasts might provide aforementioned milk, Martin amended, "I was thinking more like trailer renovation or guessing what kind of sandwiches they've laid out today."  
  
"I think Mark is going to be tomorrow's mystery meat. They'll tell you it's pork, but don't believe them."  
  
"We'll know if it starts singing opera, hm?" Martin encouraged.  
  
"My god, that sounds like an episode of The Muppets," Graham remarked.  
  
" _Björk, björk, björk!_ " they sang in unison, then cracked up.  
  
Martin stopped trailing behind, and Graham gave him a friendly brute smack on the back. Then, Graham stopped in the middle of the hall and burst into song as though imitating Mark Hadlow the Mystery Meat.  
  
_"Don't cry for me, dear Velveeta,_  
_For I am just a meatloaf, unado-orned_  
_And undeserving... of an-y ketchup..._  
_Unless we all are..."_  
  
Martin joined in on the line, " _I think we all are_."  
  
" _So share my..._ " Graham paused, arms outstretched, trying to think of a good word. " _Spin-aaaach! ... So share my chocolate... So share my spinach, so share my... chocolaaaaate_."  
  
"Spinach and chocolate?" Martin chuckled.  
  
"Well, you know," Graham held up one chickeny forearm and rotated it. "Staring at the arm gloves all day sort of evokes an image of Popeye in one's mind. All I need are the anchor tattoos. Popeye the Dwarf; he didn't quite make the cut into the tale of Snow White."  
  
" _It's our bacon-fat tooooo.._." Martin sang softly to finish off.  
  
Graham's bellowing laughter was such that the two of them shot a glance behind to make sure no one was disturbed enough by their racket to poke out of an office and shush them.  
  
They approached the end of the hall where it spilled out into a corner of the least crowded soundstage.  
  
"Ach," Graham growled in Dwalin's burr, "go git yeh some food, mister Baggins. I've got an intervieuoo afore I catch up with ya." He veered left when they reached the tent and joined Adam near an exit door, Adam hissing anxiously to him that the interviewer had been kept waiting.  
  
A few minutes later Martin, sitting across from Andy and a few elves with his potato salad and tea, was sipping thoughtfully and filing away fond memories for later.  
  
He also made a mental note to warn Benedict that Graham was almost-sort-of unknowingly onto them, and that it might be a good idea to move the diaper bag hiding place from Martin's trailer to Benedict's apartment for a while. And maybe no more sneaking Gollum juice into a baby bottle during shooting breaks, either.  
  
Bother and confusticate those nosy dwarves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder if Weird Al is looking for an apprentice.


	2. The Interview

"Ha, oh, wait, this is going to be hilarious..." Martin, sitting in front of a backdrop in his own comfortable clothes, interrupted himself and waved Benedict over when he spotted him. The insincerely bubbly woman interviewing Martin watched the two, readying to make good use of whatever antics might ensue.  
  
"Graham, get over here," he ordered.   
  
Graham had been listening off to the side for a few minutes already, silently mouthing his own commentary on Martin's answers from a position Martin couldn't see facing forward.  
  
Martin twisted to look at him. "Would your daughter be terribly unhappy if we borrowed her blankie?"  
  
"I can check," Graham shrugged. "Though she might sic Jingles the Defiler on you just for asking." He gave a wry raise of eyebrow to intimate the horrors of death by faux mouse and strode off to procure The One Blankie.  
  
Martin snerked and motioned for Benedict to lean in so he could whisper in his ear.

* * *

  
"... Exactly," Martin said. "So the choice to play Bilbo off as much more fussy in his younger days was, in a way... "  
  
He gently shifted the bundle on his lap while he talked, the camera only able to see the baby blanket slung off one shoulder as if to provide privacy for a nursing tot. Martin checked beneath it once or twice as he spoke and rubbed someone's back through the soft cloth.  
  
The interviewer bit on the inside of her cheek to remain silent.  
  
"... Y'know? And Pete was all for it." He trailed off and peeked under the blankie one last time. "Are you all done under there?" he asked brightly.  
  
Martin lifted the blankie aside and revealed Benedict curled awkwardly in his lap. They'd needed to drag another chair alongside for his long legs, but it was too low to be seen; out of frame. Martin pulled the empty baby bottle (clean, it hadn't actually been filled) from Benedict's mouth and urged him up. Benedict sat up and shared an adoring smile with Martin.  
  
Martin gave him a pat to the backside and said eagerly, "Very good! Okay, go on!" He pointed to a spot near the wall. "Go play with Uncle Graham!"  
  
With a delighted gasp and a swish of his track pants, Benedict hopped off Martin and toddled to Graham, the camera panning just enough to follow.  
  
Graham wrapped an arm around the other man's shoulders and said, leading him away, "Let's let your Daddy finish his interview. I hear poor Stephen's gotten himself stuck in a portaloo. We can go throw fish at him! Yes, can't we!"  
  
Benedict grinned and clapped happily, and let Graham steer him in the direction of ethically questionable playtime.  
  
Graham could be heard cooing as they left, "How nice! It's going to be so much fun!"  
  
Martin turned back to the interview and cleared his throat. "Sorry. It's just, y'know, the little ones; they get cranky if they don't get fed on schedule, and then there's all sorts of trouble when it comes time for their nap."   
  
He gave a flippant wave of his hand, signalling the skit was over. The interviewer, chuckling a bit through her words, nervously moved on to the next prepared question.  
  
Martin kind of hoped Graham had made up the bit about Stephen Hunter wedged in the loo. Graham had a mean aim with fish.  
  
He didn't dwell on it. If the two got up to any mischief, he was sure his little boy would tell him about it later.


End file.
